


ENTER SANDMAN

by ffelweed



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: an old piece i wrote for an RP competition back on emerald dream, blizz wiped the forums and ED isn’t what it once was so, i don’t play wow anymore but, this is entirely unedited from when i wrote it back in legion, this story deserves a home again, y’all can have it instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25858144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffelweed/pseuds/ffelweed
Summary: He hadn’t expected the Warband to be so neatly split up into the rest of the armies of the Horde, stationed away from each other in the places where they could do the most good. He had waved his goodbyes to the rest of the Warband in Dalaran, let himself be lead away by other druids to Val’Sharah, and promised he’d be back soon. He didn’t let them see his shaking hands or the fear in his eyes when the other druids told him that Val’Sharah wasn’t where he’d really be going, just where he’d be sleeping. Sleeping, resting his body while everything that was really him went into the Dream.
Kudos: 1





	ENTER SANDMAN

**Author's Note:**

> umcha is my shatterspear troll druid, who was a part of the gor’watha warband on emerald dream. brah brah oi oi oi!

He hadn’t expected the Warband to be so neatly split up into the rest of the armies of the Horde, stationed away from each other in the places where they could do the most good. He had waved his goodbyes to the rest of the Warband in Dalaran, let himself be lead away by other druids to Val’Sharah, and promised he’d be back soon. He didn’t let them see his shaking hands or the fear in his eyes when the other druids told him that Val’Sharah wasn’t where he’d really be going, just where he’d be sleeping. Sleeping, resting his body while everything that was really him went into the Dream.

Still, he put on his best brave face and tried to pretend it wasn’t a grimace. It was only a quick rotation into the Dream, just two weeks to help fight back the Nightmare. Not so bad as the years many spent asleep, not so bad as he had feared it would be when he was finally coerced into doing his duty. It was just two weeks.

The Barrow Dens were cold, lifeless, with a natural stream that ran through them. They were quiet, lacking even the small sounds of people sleeping, and Umcha shuddered as they descended into them. He had his own den, with a pile of silk blankets and a feather down pillow. The elf that escorted him to the den said something in thick Darnassian, giving him a sweet smile, and the troll just nodded in return. She left him to the cold and the stream, already making notes in her paperwork as she walked away. 

The stream gurgled, water slipping over the rocks. As Umcha curled up into the blankets, closing his eyes, birds far overhead sang him into a fitful sleep.

He opened his eyes, and everything was green. The Dens had been rocky, but rocky in a way that told of years being worn down and traveled; they had become smooth and yielding, easy for any druid wandering down to Dream to walk through. In the Dream, the walls were craggy. Water trickled down them still, making its way to the underground stream through soil and roots, but it found few easy paths down the stone. The walkways were overgrown and wild, and the troll tripped down them as he made his way out of the cave. But there was something comforting about the Dream itself, and he didn’t seem to mind. His feet stumbled forward, catching on vines and soil. He could hear laughter, the closer he got to the surface, and as the light of the sun within the Dream hit him for the first time, someone clapped his shoulder.

“Welcome to the Dream, kid!” A human, with light skin and dark hair. His smile seemed to have too many teeth, and his long ponytail draped over his shoulder. He waved idly, talking to another human-- a boy with a farmer’s tan, who seemed hopelessly confused and lost. 

An elf took Umcha by the shoulder, smiling gently down at him. “It can be a bit overwhelming, I know. Come, we shall get you settled. You shall meet your patrol group soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Uh, ya. Ya, dat sounds, eh--”

“They shall search you out, young troll. But first, you need time to adjust. Relax. You won’t have time for that soon, after all.” 

At first, it was just Orbyn who began sitting with the troll on their breaks. They didn’t need to eat, or sleep, but the rest was what kept them sane, gave them the chance to try and keep track of time as best they could. A rest every six hours, so far as Umcha could tell, and he had started taking them on an ornate bench that rested under a tree behind the Barrow Dens, idly writing letters that would never be sent, when the human first sat beside him. 

“Yo.”

“‘m busy, aiite?” Umcha chewed on his lip, carefully forming letters that were barely legible. 

“Are you? ‘Cause it just looks like you’re just scribbling nonsense lines and wasting paper.”

Umcha paused as his cheeks flushed a dark green. “‘m writin’ ta my friends.”

“Oh! Oh. I’m sorry, kid, eh. My orcish ain’t that great, so--”

“Naw, my writin’s awful.” The troll crumbled the paper up. A glower was beginning to sit on his face, but before he could get up and find a new place to rest, the human extended a hand.

“I’m Orbyn Wittaker. Figured I’d tell you, since we’re gonna be working together.”

“I don’ wanna know ya name, pinkie.” Umcha frowned down at his papers. “We ain’ friends.”

The human slapped him on the shoulder, laughing loudly. His voice was rough, coarse from years of whiskey, cigarettes, and a little something else. “Look, kid-- you’re a kid, right? I ain’t real good at telling with you trolls, you know-- there ain’t any fancy faction lines, here. No one’s got time for that crap, if you’ll pardon my elvish. Like, lookie here, right?” He gestured to himself; he wore a too-large suit that had been nice, once, and a hat tipped slightly to the side. “Me, I got some talent with turning myself into a great big bear. Something my old ma taught me, back in Gilneas. And I like helping people make their crops grow. Ain’t much use is that here, is there? Only I guess there is, ‘cause here I am. And here you are, too!”

Umcha frowned, easing the human’s hand off his shoulder and standing from the bench. “Dat don’ mean ‘m gonna be friends wid pinkies like ya, doe. Workin’ wid ain’ de same as bein’ friends.”

“Ah, well. You see, my very tall friend-- by the gods, you are rather big, aren’t you?-- working is always so much more fun when you have friends. And friends, friends keep an eye out for you. You look like you might just need that, where we’re headed.” The human grinned with teeth too big for his mouth.

“Well, I don’.” 

The human couldn’t seem to take no for an answer. From then on, Orbyn took his rest periods with the younger troll, and he chattered without care for if his fellow druid answered or not. Umcha tried new rest areas, at first. He sat with his feet in a small stream for twenty minutes or so, one day, before Orbyn showed up. The human had a knack for finding people, and he tapped his nose with a grin when Umcha finally gave up and asked how he kept finding him. 

“What’s dat supposed ta mean? Ya a human.”

Orbyn barked out a laugh, still grinning as though he knew a wonderful joke that Umcha didn’t. “What, you ain’t heard about what happened in Gilneas?” 

The troll frowned, thinking. “I mean, eh. I rememba, eh. De deadie queen invaded, an’ sometin’ else before dat…” Umcha waved his hand in dismissal. “I dunno. Nuttin’ importan’.”

Orbyn laughed again, leaning far back on both of his arms. “You really don’t know? You gotta be the first person I met since I _left_ Gilneas that don’t know.”

“What? It ain’ funny!” 

“It’s the best joke I heard all week!” Orbyn grinned at the troll, and he could’ve sworn the human’s teeth seemed sharper, his voice even more gravely than usual. The human grunted as his fingers stretched and warped, as fur began to push upwards from his skin. Umcha could only watch in horror as the other man’s muzzle slowly pushed out, as his ears moved to the top of his skull, as his bones cracked and popped as they reformed. When the human-- the worgen-- spoke again, his voice nearly growled. 

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed!” Orbyn laughed. His suit finally fit him correctly, though his tipped over hat seemed comically small. He dug a cigarette and a match out of his breast pocket, handing one over to the troll, as well, and lighting it for him. “Anyway, you ain’t that hard to find. You got this distinctive smell, you know? Like wildflowers, pine needles, and soot. Well, soot ain’t the right word for it. It’s more like this mix of, eh, of fear, and pride, and sadness, and all this other crap. Should prolly work on that, kid. Animals can sense that stuff, you know?”

“What?” Umcha frowned.

“Animals! They know when you’re afraid, angry, all of that stuff. You ain’t ever noticed?” Orbyn puffed on his cigarette, still grinning. 

“I ain’ really been aroun’ a lotta animals.” The two pillars of smoke mingled, quickly becoming a small cloud that surrounded the two.

“No? My wife’s got a couple of cats. We had some on the ships, too. Kept the rats away.”

“Ain’ ya a farmer or sometin’? Ya mentioned helpin’ wid crops, before.”

“Naw, see, I work on a ship. You think I got muscles like this growing plants? I mean, farmers got some big arms, too, but this is all sea, kid. We smuggle stuff, mostly.” Orbyn winked, his sharp-toothed grin flashing. 

“So ya know orcish ‘cause ya a criminal?” 

“Well. When you put it like that it makes me sound like a real bad guy, don't it? But there's folks willing to pay a lotta money for elvish silk or wine. I got a wife to take care of, you know? She doesn't come outta the house much anymore, but I still gotta send her money so she can eat, and maybe get some of those nice dresses for when she can control the curse, you know?” The worgen scratched his beard and sighed. “You gotta keep your emotions under check, or you lose it. Keep your head, now, but it's hard for her to feel pretty when she looks like a wolf. And she's always been melancholy, so she ain't real good with it.”

“Dat’s, eh. ‘m sorry.” 

“Lilly’ll be alright. She's got our Mags to help, and Mags’ a good kid. Look, here! I got this tiny painting done of them, before. I was still smuggling then, but, uh--” Orbyn dug in his breast pocket again. “Here, see? Lilly’s got the brown hair, and Mags’ is black, like mine. She's got her ma’s freckles though, eh? Splattered across her nose like mud.” 

Umcha took the small picture carefully, the locket tiny in his hand. “Dey look real nice. Dose’re some fancy lookin’ dresses.” 

The worgen snorted, shaking his head as he took the silver locket back. “What about you, kid? Any family?” 

“Naw. I mean, eh. I wanna have kids one day, but I prolly ain't gonna. De Warband’s a good family, doe. Dey close enough.” Umcha shrugged, leaning back on his arm as he chewed on the cigarette. 

“You’re in a Warband, then? Fighting the good fight against the filthy Alliance?” Orbyn grinned widely.

“I mean, eh. Ya, mossly. But we tryin’ ta find our own place, ya know? Fa Zul’Watha. A lotta us don’ got homes, so.”

“I can understand that.” The worgen laughed as Umcha gave him an incredulous look. “I can! Gilneas is lost to plague and feral worgen, and we ain’t gonna really reclaim it any time soon. Maybe not ever.”

“Mine’s overgrown wid de fores’ an’ burned ta ground afore dat, anyways. An’ errybody’s dead.” The troll puffed on his cigarette again. 

“Well, maybe after we fight off this Nightmare you’ll find your Zul’Watha.”

“Mebbe ya can get a new Gilneas.”

“Maybe.”

Before long, the second human started joining them for breaks. She introduced herself as Emmie Gallows, turned herself into the largest housecat Umcha had ever seen, bigger than some tigers, and closed her eyes as though she was sleeping. Her ears twitched in amusement whenever Orbyn joked, though, and she always gave Umcha patient smiles as they worked together. 

Another troll joined them after that. She introduced herself to Umcha as Mama Zinka in Zandali, then quietly explained that she didn’t speak orcish, though she understood it. But she patted Umcha on the hand as they talked, and the ancient Darkspear woman was happy to sit and listen to the rest of her group chatter. 

The four spent their time on and off duty together, though Umcha rather thought it was only because there was no real time to make other friends. Still, as all of them except the elf spent their days together, he found he didn’t miss the Warband as painfully as he had before. The pile of letters in his sack in the Dens stopped growing, and he stopped telling himself he’d find a runner to take them back to the waking world. He let the days blend together until they became weeks, and then months, as misery and fear began to slip from his mind. It was hard work, and they had to keep careful watch, and yet the troll found himself struggling to remember what life had been like before he came into the Dream. It was so far away, so distant, and he pushed it from his mind entirely. The Dream was what was real, now, the Dream was what was important, and the dreams of before could wait until the work was done. 

Their patrols became much the same as the rest of their days, filled with conversation and laughter despite the danger. The elf, Chanaria, was always quiet, focused, quick to chide the rest of the group for lacking in attention. 

“Moonblood, relax.” Emmie grinned at the sullen druid, arms stretched behind her head. “We ain’t gotta be on the balls of our feet all the time.”

Umcha’s mouth twitched up in a smile. “Moonblood? Like, eh, blood on de moon? Like--”

“Don’t.” The elf glared back at him.

Umcha grinned, nudging Orbyn. “Like dose tings girlies get, righ’? Like ya monthlies? Ya tink dat’s one’a dem fancy names dat get passed down, Orbyn, or ya tink she earned it?”

“Umcha, maybe you shouldn’t--” 

“”s fine, ‘s fine! Righ’, girlie? We jes talkin’, righ’? Mebbe dey give her dis name ‘cause she only jes gottem! ‘s a real big ting, I hear. Girlies get real proud ‘bout it.”

Chanaria stopped, shoulders trembling. “Look, troll. It’s bad enough I have to speak your language--”

“Orcish ain’t my language!” 

“-- but I will not be mocked by someone significantly my younger! Especially not someone who has only begun to learn what it is to be a druid!”

“I ain’ younger den ya! Ya like, what. Fourteen or sometin’? Ya like a baby.” Umcha huffed, staring the elf down. “‘Sides, Mama Zinka knows a lot about de Dream.”

“I am seventy-three years old, Shatterspear.” She spat his tribe like a curse. “And I have been training within Moonglade for the last twenty-five. How old are you? Nineteen, twenty? You trolls, you die so young. It is a pity you shall never experience the Dream in the way I have. Then again, perhaps you do not deserve to.”

She strode forward, leaving the other four behind. Emmie was the first to react, laughing quietly to herself as she jogged forward and slapped the other woman on the back. Orbyn shook his head, following, while Zinka gently patted Umcha on the hand. Chanaria called back after a moment, a light song in her tone. “I should be careful with that one, Zinka. I am rather fond of you, and Shatterspear are known for breaking truces for even the smallest of rewards. I should hate to see you hurt, my Darkspear friend.”

Umcha spent the rest of the patrol in sullen silence, staring hard at the ground. They finished their route in uncomfortable quiet, Orbyn resting his hand on the troll’s shoulder for a moment as they approached the Dens. The human didn’t say anything, but he gave the other druid a small smile. Umcha nodded, rubbing his forehead a bit as Orbyn left him alone. The Dens were usually quiet, at least, and he wouldn’t be bothered--

“Troll. I would speak with you a moment.” Chanaria’s voice caught him as he rounded the corner, and Umcha’s shoulders slumped. 

“Look, I don’ wanna fight wid ya righ’ now, girlie. ‘M tired.” 

“It's the Dream. You shouldn't be tired.” 

“‘S jes an expression. Ting. I ain’ actually-- look, whatcha want?” The troll rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. 

“My comments about your tribe were… uncalled for. I apologize.” Chanaria clasped her hands behind her back, staring up at the other druid. “Do you forgive me?”

“What? No!” The words came out before Umcha could stop them. He flushed a bit and looked at the ground. “Look, girlie. I get it, aiite? Ya a big important elfie an’ I shouldn'ta teased ya.” 

“Yes, exactly.” 

“But I ain’t forgivin’ ya. Ya don' gotta forgive me, eidder, we jes gotta work togedder. It ain't like we friends.” 

“Troll--” 

“My name’s Umcha, aiite? I tol’ Orbyn I'd meet ‘im near de dens. I gotta go, girlie.” He spun quickly on his heel, ignoring the elf as she called after him. 

The worgen was nowhere near the dens when Umcha got there, but he hadn't expected the other druid to be. He leaned against the mouth of the cave, face buried in his hand. 

The Dream ate at his sense of time, the Warband slipping more from his thoughts every day. There was no time for idle thoughts, really, for wondering how his friends and family fared against the Legion. There were new friends to watch out for, a new family to protect. They settled into a routine, filled with laughter and smiles despite the danger, and even Chanaria slowly relaxed. For all the supposed danger, the worries other druids brought back, the talk of corruption, their route was simple, serene. 

The area of the Dream they patrolled was thick with vines and greenery, with trees as tall as the sky and leaves as large as houses. Though he’d been in and out of the area for months, it still took Umcha’s breath away. The occasional bug drifted in and out of the Dream as they walked, dragonflies the size of tauren flickering in and out of existence as they flitted through the canopy. Once, there had been a sleeping lizard, of sorts, curled up with its over-large head and small arms twitching against a fallen log, but it had faded from the Dream as they approached. 

Today, nothing so interesting awaited them. Just the peaceful quiet of the Dream. 

“Fu wassa t’ief dina. Jang yonde antu, ya?” Mama Zinka smiled at them all, walking arm in arm with Umcha. 

“She says she loves de plants ‘ere, and she tinks we’re lucky ta get ta guard it.” Umcha smiled back, tugging the older woman closer with a grin. 

“Ta enuit audord. Di fus’obeah oondasta por so Umcha bwoyar.”

“Today is borin’, doe. Dere no giant lizards ta make our Um-- ‘ey! I didn’ scream, Mama!” The younger troll pulled away with a huff, Zandali swears on his tongue. The Darkspear woman only laughed, patting his arm as Orbyn and Emmie sniggered and Charania hid her mouth behind her hand. 

“You kinda did scream, kid. If there were birds in these trees, they prolly all would’ve flown off, you were so loud. Woke the poor devilsaur right outta the Dream!” Orbyn laughed louder, shaking his head. 

Chanaria let a small laugh out as well, but as she stepped forward she paused. “Orbyn, quiet.”

The worgen’s laugh died off, a frown taking its place. “What is it?”

The elf look around, eyes squinting, lips pursed. “We’ve been here.”

“‘Course we have, Chan. We here all de time. We was here yestaday, an’--” 

“We’ve been here already on this _patrol_ , Umcha. We’ve already passed the three small trees growing from the toppled trunk before, remember? Emmie mentioned how the patrol had been going so quickly.” Chanaria crossed her arms, feet firmly planted in the ground. “We need to go back.”

“Ya tink--” 

“Yes.” 

The five druids glanced at each other, sharp nods in a circle. Umcha pulled Zinka with him, patting her arm again to reassure them both. The older troll just smiled at him, turning to trace their steps back to the Barrow Dens within the Dream. 

The vines beneath their feet tugged as they walked, more than they had on any previous patrol, tripping and catching the druids. Umcha closed his eyes, trudging on, and put Emmie’s small whimpers out of his mind. They would be fine, of course. This wasn’t the first time there had been danger. The Dream was always dangerous, and they had always been fine. They’d be fine. 

“‘Course we will, kid. You got me with you, don’t you? Ain’t nothing to worry about.” Orbyn grinned, and Umcha flushed as he realized the words hadn’t just been thoughts. 

“Ya, we fine. Don’tcha worry, Mama. Orbyn’s got us covered, eh? Nuttin’ ta worry ‘bout wid de big stupid bear around.” 

Orbyn’s laugh was cut off by a thud as he fell to the ground, heavy vines wrapped around his legs. He swore, claws ripping through skin to slash at thorny, rotten vines. He stumbled upward, pushing the two trolls by their shoulders, ignoring how his claws dug into them, and forced them to run. Behind them, Chanaria tried to pull Emmie from the vines, screeching in frustration as they engulfed the small worgen. The elf bolted, quickly catching up to Orbyn and the trolls, rubbing at her face. 

“Where’s Emmie?” 

“Just go!” 

The Dream warped around them, plantlife rotting even as they ran. Mama Zinka was ripped from Umcha’s grasp with a small cry, but Orbyn pushed him forward anyway. “Stop! We gotta-- she ain’ dead, we gotta help!” 

“You _can’t_ help! Go!” The worgen was changing as they ran, black fur pushing out from his skin and bones rearranging. He dropped to all fours, flinging the troll on his back. “Someone’s got to warn everyone else, kid!” 

“But--” 

“I ain’t letting you die.”

Chanaria gave them both a small, sad smile, legs easily keeping up with Orbyn. “If we don’t do our jobs, Umcha, far more than they shall die.” 

“I know dat, but--” 

“No buts, kid.” Umcha nodded, rubbing his face before grabbing at Orbyn’s fur. 

“Dis ain’ right, de-- de plants ain’ changin’. We goin’ in a circle.” 

The worgen cursed, slowing to a stop. “It’s messing with us, ain’t it.” 

“Probably. It seems as though that would be within its nature.” Chanaria sighed, shaking her head. “We have to keep moving.” 

“Ain’t a point, is there?” Orbyn shifted, nodding for Umcha to stand. “We’re going in circles already.”

“What de hell else is dere ta do? Jes wait fa it?” 

“No. We will find a way out.”

Umcha could hear the vines, slithering just beyond sight. He rubbed at his face, already nearly gagging on the scent of rot and decay that was quickly becoming stronger. He could see it, almost. Red and grey, the rot seeping the life from the Dream. Or maybe it was just revealing the truth that had been hidden from them, their fate, what the had left Emmie and Zinka to--

“Hey, kid.” There was a small shake in Orbyn’s voice that slipped past the forced grin. “Look here, not at that crap.” 

Umcha dragged his eyes from the foliage. “‘s gettin’ closa.”

“I know, but you ain’t gotta worry about it, alright? We ain’t got a way to stop it, so forget about it for a second.” The worgen smiled again. “Just breathe, alright kid?” 

“You shouldn’t coddle him, Orbyn. As you said, it seems as though escape isn’t likely.” 

“I ain’t coddling, Chan. It can’t focus on all of us at the same time.” Orbyn grinned wide, patting Umcha on the shoulder. “And the kid’s the fastest runner between the three of us. Prolly got the best chances.”

“You don’t mean--” The elf grimaced.

“That’s right. Distraction duty so the kid gets out. Someone’s gotta.”

“No! Dat ain’-- I ain’--” 

“You are.”

“De girlie knows de Dream betta, send ‘er!” 

“Umcha.” Chanaria’s voice was quiet, and the hint of a smile rested on her lips. “You’re faster.”

“But--”

“We’ll figure it out, kid. We always do, don't we?” 

Umcha’s lip wobbled but, even as he nodded, the Dream began to fade even faster into Nightmare. 

“Go!” The vines were coming again, slick and foul with a stench like a corpse. They pulled at Chanaria, ignoring her curses, silencing the spells she tried to scream with a vine over her mouth. Another slowly tightened around her neck, bruising even in the Dream. They pulled her legs out from under her, dragging her away even as her skin began to grey, as her white hair turned the blinding red of Nightmare. “Go, kid!” 

He ran. Umcha ran, legs pounding hard into the soft mulch of Un’goro, leaping over vines and foliage with more elegance than he'd ever before possessed. Behind him, Orbyn let out a sharp yell. But the troll didn't slow, didn't stop. He couldn't. He had to warn them, the Nightmare--

His face hit the ground before his brain registered what had happened. A vine, sickly grey, wrapped around his leg. It was small, lithe, but the thorns had pierced his skin. He could feel something burning, someone screaming, and his threat was so raw, so pained-- 

The hut that he stood in was small. It had always been small, the main area taken by his mother’s various pillows and blankets. There were other rooms, of course, but they'd been destroyed-- he looked up, and the balcony that overlooked the rest of the hut was there. Of course it was there. Why wouldn't it be? Umcha shook his head, idly scratching the back of his neck with his right arm. The feeling was strange, as though he hadn't done it for a long time, but the thought slipped from his mind as quickly as it came. 

“Ma? I'm back from the market! Miss Tuli had these real nice beads, and she gave them to me for some of those--” 

“Umcha.” Her voice, as always, was cold. Distant. Uncaring. “Why are you here?” 

“What are you talking about, Ma? Where else would I be?”

“I don't want you here.” She was there, in front of him. But she'd been there the whole time, hadn't she? She was just as she always was. Her deep green skin had more yellow undertones than her son’s, her orange hair, which reached nearly to her calves, stood out against her skin while Umcha’s blue-green blended with the rest of his complexion. She was tall for a Shatterspear, though not as tall as her son, and she stared impassively at him with pale orange eyes. “I told you not to come back.” 

“But-- Ma--” 

He'd seen that look before. He raised his hands, already warding off the blows, but they never came. She held a knife, instead, the one they used to gut the fish. She'd forgotten to clean it again, and a rotting stench wafted from the knife. “Ma!”

“I didn't want you here. I didn't want you.” She lowered the knife, and Umcha lowered his hands. His mother smiled at him, sick and sweet as the knife in her hand dragged its way across her own stomach. “Look what you've done to me, you wretched child.”

He stared in horror, the other troll’s innards pushing out. She grabbed at them, clawed the from her body, held them in her arms and between her teeth. They shouldn't be-- this wasn't how it happened-- His mother smiled at him, entrails dragging on the floor, bloody hands cupping his face. “Look at what you've done.” 

The druid couldn't stop the scream from building in his throat. This wasn't right, this shouldn't be happening, this wasn't--

Umcha woke with a start, the scream he had started in the Dream-- the Nightmare-- coming to life in the normally peaceful Dens of Val’Sharah. The echoed back to him strangely, higher pitched, and he flung himself from his den before it registered that he wasn’t the only one screaming. Down the hall, no more than five dens away, druids of all sorts rushed into a single den. Snarls filled the air, the clanging and clashing of a fight, and he ran once again. It was here. They were here. It followed him, it had to have, the Nightmare had followed him outside the dream, it was here-- 

The troll smacked face-first into a tall night elf as he ran, bouncing off the other man and crashing to the floor. He scrambled back to his feet, panic on his face, but the other druid grabbed him by the arm. “Did you just wake up?”

“I-I-- I ain’ supposed-- de Nightmare, we gotta--” 

The elf brushed Umcha’s hair out of his face, speaking a quiet word in Darnassian, and the troll felt his legs crumple beneath him and his eyes start to close before he could fight the spell. The elf scooped him up, ignoring the younger druid’s tired, mumbled protests, and the world faded into a restless sleep.

He woke again some time later, tall body folded carefully into an infirmary bed. The elf from before waited by his bed, absently growing small flowers in his palms, and started when Umcha tried to sit up. “You shouldn’t be awake yet. You need more rest.”

“De-- Un’goro-- ‘s dere, an’--” 

The elf smiled gently, putting pressure on Umcha’s shoulders to force him to lay back down. “We know, troll. Orbyn Wittaker was able to tell us.”

“‘e’s aiite? ‘e got out?” Umcha tried to sit up again, but the elf simply added more pressure.

“He did, but he had been corrupted by the Nightmare. Wittaker dealt with the problem himself.”

“What? Dat--” 

“He is no longer a concern of yours, young druid. Sleep. You are lucky you evaded your own corruption.” The order was laced with magic, and Umcha felt his protests slipping from his tongue as his eyes closed against his will once more. 

“But-- did any’a dem--” 

“Sleep, troll. There shall be time for questions later.” 

The room faded again, and Umcha slipped into a fitful dream. Not the Dream, but just a dream, filled with rotting vines and screams.

It took days for the druids to let him leave the infirmary, though he was given strict instructions to stay away from the Dens. He ignored it, of course, slipping out when the other druids were busy so he wouldn’t have anyone try to walk with him. 

Umcha walked quietly through the Dens, though there was no worry of waking the Dreamers. It was their guardians he was silent for, who he kept his head bowed to as he walked past. The quieter he was, the less they’d notice him, and the less chance they’d recognize him and ask why he was out of bed alone. 

They hadn’t know it, while they slept, but their five dens had been clumped together, with Chanaria’s at one end and Umcha’s at the other. For nearly two weeks-- not months, not nearly a year, only two short weeks-- they had slept within a hundred yards of each other. Orbyn’s den was the closest to the troll’s. Umcha stopped there, eyes trained on the floor. They hadn’t cleaned it out yet. The human’s bedding was gone, but the walls still carried a reddish tint that hadn’t fully been scrubbed away, and a metallic scent persisted in the air. His pack lay to the side of where his bedding had been, carefully folded clothes and Orbyn’s familiar rapier on top of the bag. It looked much the same as it had in the Dream, only older, more worn. The ornate hilt was broken in places, the blade chipped. In the Dream, it had been new. Here, reality told a different story. 

Umcha placed the sword on the ground, sifting through clothes to get into the pack itself. An invasion, likely, but Orbyn wouldn’t care. Not anymore. Umcha sniffled as he dug through the bag, tossing various letters and trinkets to the floor. More clothes were pulled out, far shabbier than the ones on top of the pack and the ones that Orbyn wore in the Dream, but the troll ignored them. The treasure had sunk to the bottom of the bag, and Umcha almost smiled when he felt his fingers reach it. He pulled the locket out, clutching it tightly, and closed his eyes. With a sigh, he put the locket in his own bag, fingers lingering on the silver, and rose again. 

He paused as he left the den, head turning for a moment as though the troll was going to look back. But he squared his shoulders and took a step forward instead.


End file.
